


Can't

by grassylampshade



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slice of Life, Timeline What Timeline, a mix of game and show based entirely on author's whims, author likes to fall down research rabbit holes, ruthlessly cherrypicked canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28293363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassylampshade/pseuds/grassylampshade
Summary: Sometimes Geralt lies to Jaskier.Sometimes Geralt lies to himself.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [locktea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Locktea/pseuds/Locktea) ([tumblr here](https://locktea.tumblr.com/)) for the beta, without whom this fic would not have ended as well as it did.
> 
> I bolted awake at 2:09am on July 13, 2020 in the midst of a global pandemic and a four-month furlough from work. The first two chapters were fully-formed in my head and I texted them to myself from under the blankets so I wouldn't lose them. I've chipped away at this fic for several months as the chapters came to me, usually in dreams. This has been an entirely bizarre experience since I haven't written fiction since grade school, but the story makes me laugh and I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

“Hm.” Geralt's eyes flicked to his plate as the innkeeper's daughter set it before him. Two thick slices of ham, seared. Crispy potatoes, cooked in lard. This morning's eggs, fried soft. And thrown haphazardly on top, as if an afterthought, two thick slices of dense bread studded with raisins. 

“…and after I had dazzled the keeper of the list with my charm and endearing good looks he bumped me ahead of that scoundrel, Valdo Marx, and-” Jaskier's rambling ground to a halt. He had finished piling as much meat and eggs as possible onto his own bread and was now frozen with the food halfway between his plate and his mouth. “Geralt? Is something amiss? Please don’t tell me if the food is poisoned, I haven’t eaten ham in ages and I’d like to die with a full belly.” 

Geralt slanted his eyes around the room, assessing the other occupants. A druid, stinking of sour wine, methodically plowed through cup after cup of willowbark tea while a fat orange cat toasted its rump in front of the morning fire. He leaned forward an inch and locked eyes with Jaskier.

“Witchers can’t eat raisins.”

Jaskier dropped his bread, splattering his fine doublet with egg yolk. “You- what?” He seemed torn between delight and disbelief. 

“Jaskier.” Geralt nudged his own bread aside and started eating.

“Oh, no no no. You are not finally revealing a Witcher secret to me, your loyal bard, merely a humble servant to truth and the beauty of the craft, who tirelessly sings your praises each night to the teeming masses, and the secret is that you  _ cannot eat raisins! _ ” He ended in a whispered shriek, enraged yet not willing to betray this newly-gained trust.

Geralt shrugged and pushed the slices off his plate and onto the table.


	2. Chapter 2

They had the misfortune of finding the only dishonorable man in Toussaint.

“As soon as I find my lute- hic- I’m going to butcher him in rhyme!” Jaskier stumbled from one end of the cellar to the other. “His name shall become- hic- synonymous with skinflints and cads and people who deserve… very bad things.” He trailed off, seemingly at a loss. He turned and wove back to plop himself at Geralt’s feet and gazed blearily up at him.

After Geralt had cleared the vineyard of wraiths, they had sought the owner at his brother’s estate. The man had refused to consider a bag of ash proof of the deed and had earned Jaskier’s wrath by having them escorted out by a dozen guardsmen. In a fit of pique, Jaskier set off back towards the newly-wraithless vineyard to “settle the debt himself,” and as they had no money for an inn and no other job prospects, Geralt and Roach trailed behind him.

Some time later, Geralt sat upon an upturned bucket, empty wine bottles littered on the floor around him. Jaskier valued Geralt’s work- “our work, Geralt, you ungrateful sod,” quite highly and had selected several bottles with great care. After those were consumed, rationality had gone to the wind. Bottles were then selected as payment for offenses such as “being a right manky git" and “flooring with green and orange marble tiles in a granite-walled entryway.”

Geralt peered down at Jaskier and tried to recover the lost thread of conversation. He tilted his head and appraised Jaskier for a long moment. Jaskier fidgeted under the attention.

“ _Fuck_ , I’m drunk,” Jaskier moaned with the conviction that only the truly soused can achieve. He nudged Geralt’s boot with his own. “How about you? Are you feeling paid in full?” Geralt blinked slowly.

“Witchers can’t get drunk.”

Jaskier whipped out his hand and sloppily planted it across Geralt’s mouth while craning his neck to survey the cellar. “Stop! Say no more! I will hear no more revelations until I find my damn-bloody-thrice-cursed lute!”

Geralt hid a smile under Jaskier’s hand and pointed over Jaskier’s shoulder to where the lute hung, as always, on a braided leather strap against his back. Jaskier’s eyes widened and he howled in indignation. He then jumped to his feet and proceeded to ineffectively twist and reach over his own shoulder in a fair mimicry of a dog chasing its tail.

Geralt laughed so hard he fell backwards off the bucket.


	3. Chapter 3

“I don’t understand why you must be so _unkempt._ ” The word turned to a slur in Jaskier’s mouth. He was perched on a stool behind the bath tub, busily picking burrs from Geralt’s hair. Jaskier had been grooming and humming and muttering for so long Geralt had settled into a light trance. There was a pause long enough to merit more than a grunt in response. Geralt sighed and sunk a little lower in the tub.

“Witchers can’t see themselves in mirrors.”

Jaskier hands froze on Geralt’s scalp. He braced an elbow on his knee and leaned around to stare Geralt in the face. Geralt slit one yellow eye open and regarded him steadily. Jaskier sat back and resumed plucking burrs.

“That explains a lot, actually.”


	4. Chapter 4

They were in the middle of a vast grassland that was so empty nobody had even bothered to name it. It would be days before they came across a town and it had been days since they’d been in one. Jaskier had been fussing with the same bit of melody for most of the day and had now progressed to playing it on the lute while he sang scraps of words. Geralt had let himself slip partially into meditation to keep from reaching over and strangling Jaskier with the lute’s strap.

Jaskier then started to play and sing at different times so the music and his voice repeated and overlapped in an interesting way. Despite himself, Geralt tipped his head slightly to listen better, which Jaskier pounced on immediately.

"Geralt, my good witcher, I need your assistance!”

Geralt flinched back to gaze straight ahead but it was too late. “Please, Geralt, I’m trying to sort this out and I can’t do it properly myself. What else could be so important that you can’t help me?” Jaskier trotted ahead of Roach and fluttered his eyelashes, begging silently. He had learned he was much more successful when pleading non-verbally than with words and used it to his advantage whenever he had enough willpower to shut his mouth. Geralt strongly disliked this newfound knowledge but was bored enough to humor Jaskier this time.

The bard noticed the change in his posture and dove immediately into explanation, “Now, this type of song is called a catch, or a round, because you sing around and around. Everyone sings the same thing but not at the same time and it becomes a big lovely noise without having to bother teaching everyone different notes to sing. Now listen,” Jaskier quickly sang a [peppy little ditty](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBmNeWJVc7U) that spoke of young love but managed to only mention cocks once. “Have you got it?”

Geralt blinked, unsure what he was supposed to have gotten. “It’s fine.”

“Alright, then I’ll start!” Jaskier launched back into the song, his voice ringing clearly in the lilting melody. As he neared the end of the first verse, he raised his eyebrows higher and higher at Geralt before giving him an exaggerated nod. Geralt was baffled by the display and remained silent. Jaskier huffed out a groan of exasperation and said, “That was your cue. Start singing from the beginning when I start the second verse and then keep going. Your memory is excellent, you’ll do just fine.”

“Witchers can’t sing.”

“Don’t be bashful, Geralt. It’s a song for peasants to sing in a tavern, very basic, and there’s nobody to hear you within a day’s walk but me. You have a lovely deep voice! Or you could just hum it, you  _ love _ to hum- or perhaps those are more of a grunt than a hum…” He realized the error of his rambling speech and abruptly turned to Geralt with longing eyes, a pouted lip, and teeth clenched tight against his own speech.

Geralt felt cornered despite the wide open horizon. “It’s not a  _ won’t, _ it’s a  _ can’t. _ ” He groped for words, “It was the Trials, they did something. To our voices. Or maybe it was all the screaming as boys. I don’t know. Can’t sing.” He forced his eyes forward and hunched his shoulders forward in a gesture of finality. He pretended not to see the sad looks Jaskier kept sending his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jaskier sings is "I gave her cakes and I gave her ale" by Henry Purcell (~1680). I quite liked [this version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBmNeWJVc7U) and had it stuck in my head for days.


	5. Chapter 5

Geralt abruptly turned off the road and led Roach into a clearing. He unsaddled the horse and began setting up camp, ignoring Jaskier with practiced ease.

“Why are we stopping? Aren’t we going to Cidaris? It’s right there…” Jaskier looked between Geralt and the road, clearly nonplussed. He dithered a bit with his lute then slung it gently to the ground alongside Roach's packs. “Don’t you want to find an inn? Eat something we haven’t killed and cooked ourselves? I could go see if there are any rooms, then come back once I’ve found somewhere-”

Geralt grunted, then turned as Jaskier drew breath for further interrogation. “Saving coin.”

“Saving for what? I don’t understand what could possibly be _more_ important than a bath and a bed, Geralt.”

“You’ll see.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes hard enough he nearly missed the tiny smirk tucked in the corner of Geralt’s mouth. If Geralt was feeling playful, Jaskier was certainly going to encourage it. He settled himself beside the witcher and watched as the cooking fire took shape, endeavoring to only complain half as much as the situation warranted. 

* * *

“I do so love visiting new places, Geralt. So much to explore, so many people to meet, no running into tedious acquaintances-”

“Or angry husbands.”

“Or angry husbands, indeed. So many possibilities!” Jaskier chattered on as they worked their way deeper into the city. The main road shifted to a slight decline and the flow of traffic ebbed around them.

A shimmer caught Jaskier’s attention and he darted around Geralt’s broad silhouette. “Oh, glory,” he sighed, overwhelmed by the sight.

All roads in Cidaris seemed to converge on the slope before them, winding down into a swarming mass of people, animals, and brightly colored fabric. Jaskier certainly knew _of_ the Seaside Bazaar, and had _been_ to markets all over the continent, but nothing prepared him for the sheer spectacle before him. Rows upon rows of tents and covered wagons formed a vast tapestry that flowed from the edge of the city proper down to the beach. Docks to one side held innumerable ships of all sizes and shapes. He could hear the swelling noise of the crowd and his patience with Geralt’s steady tread suddenly snapped. 

Jaskier hustled downhill, darting between carts and shoppers, eager to feast his eyes. He wandered gleefully, flirting and dickering with shopkeepers without any particular intent to purchase. He was charmed into buying a few trinkets and supplies, but enjoyed the rabble too much to linger for long at any one vendor. As the sun rose in the sky, Jaskier realized he was hungry and was pleased to see Geralt appear between two fruit merchants as if he had been summoned by the mere thought of food. 

After collecting lunch, they drifted away from the crowd, continuing down to the beach. It was an unseasonably warm day. Jaskier had long since removed his doublet and was fanning his shirt away from his chest, letting the sea breeze cool him. Though the market was jammed with people eager to get the year's first shipments, the shoreline was nearly deserted. They wove between sand dunes until Geralt found a suitable place for their picnic.

They laid out their bedrolls together and ate in companionable silence. As soon as he licked his fingers clean, Jaskier hopped up and started rummaging through his pack. Triumphant, he pulled out a fist-sized jar and tossed it underhand to Geralt.

“Help a friend out, won’t you?” He stripped out of his clothes and left them haphazardly folded in the sand. Geralt cracked the wax seal from the jar. The smell was sweet and herbal, the salve was thick, white, and shimmered in the sun. Jaskier dipped his fingers in the jar and started covering himself, quickly but thoroughly. “Come on now, don’t be shy,” he backed towards Geralt, eyes locked on the water and heedless of his own nudity. Geralt gingerly scooped out the salve and knelt up to work it into the skin on Jaskier’s back. “I’ve got to be careful, you know. Can’t let myself go leathery like an old boot. Can you imagine?” Geralt’s hand chased Jaskier as he twisted and bent to coat his own legs. “How about you, you ivory monolith? I’m surprised you aren’t red as a lobster already.”

Geralt did not mention the large streak of white across Jaskier’s nose and cheek. “Witchers can’t get sunburned.”

“Bah, some men get all the luck,” and with that, Jaskier jogged off to go investigate the tide pools. 

Geralt scanned the horizon one last time, then shucked his layers of armor and clothes off at a leisurely pace, like a crab leaving its shell. He huffed out a breath at himself, amused that the bard’s penchant for bad metaphors seemed to be contagious. Sensing no danger and lulled by the waves, he settled down on his belly for a nap. 

* * *

Geralt jolted awake, startling several gulls. His skin was tight and itchy. He sat up and twisted to locate Jaskier, spotting him serenading a lone sea lion. Geralt stretched his arms overhead and winced. He hunkered low and waited, all his hunter instincts focused on timing his movements to remain unseen. Finally, Jaskier turned to face the sea lion as it lumbered farther down the beach. Geralt sprinted to the water and dove deep into the waves. He surfaced with a decidedly un-witcherly yelp. While the air may have been warm, the ocean was still frigid.

“Have you gone mad? Did a crab pinch your cock off?” Jaskier called out, considering nude witchers risking hypothermia far more interesting than a sea lion, despite their similar appreciation for music. “Did a siren call you in?”

Geralt flung himself onto his back and did a few broad swimming strokes with his arms without difficulty. He had been in the freezing water long enough. He swam over to a rocky outcropping and waved vigorously for Jaskier, intentionally expressive. The man swiftly picked his way across the sand and stone, fastidiously avoiding mats of seaweed. When he reached Geralt, Jaskier leaned down from the boulder above him, intent on learning what would cause his stoic witcher to bolt. Geralt glanced up at Jaskier, naked and crouched just above eye level.

Before Jaskier could react, Geralt grabbed him at the forearm and hip, and flipped Jaskier overhead into the sea.


	6. Chapter 6

“Witchers can’t get frostbite.”

“But humans can, you self-righteous bastard. Get over here before my toes fall off!”

Geralt shuffled over, dragging his blankets with him. He slid into Jaskier's bedroll and did not know when waking turned to dreaming.


	7. Chapter 7

“You aren’t singing.”

Jaskier sat with his lute in his lap, staring blankly into the fire Geralt had built. The moment stretched. Geralt was uneasy with the silence the same way he was unsettled when birds in the forest went quiet. He stretched a leg out to where Jaskier sat a quarter-way around the fire and prodded Jaskier’s thigh with his booted toe.

Jaskier yowled like an angry cat and swatted him away. “Who would I sing for anyway? Roach?  _ You? _ Nobody is hungry for a fillingless pie.” Jaskier scoffed, disgusted.

The bard was surprisingly woeful for having just witnessed a magical orgy, survived a djinn's curse, and escaped a powerful sorceress. When Geralt had finally climbed out of the mayor’s ruined house he had intended to track the bard by sound alone, expecting Jaskier would be overjoyed at regaining his voice and already composing songs about the day’s events. Instead he found Jaskier sitting on his bedroll in a tiny clearing far off the road, without even a small fire for light.

The silence coalesced between them, like mist condensing into a wraith. Geralt did not want to see the shape this silence would take.

“Witchers can’t feel.”

The bard blinked but did not turn towards him. Geralt was desperate for him to argue on Geralt’s behalf, to wade in and usurp the thread of conversation, to change the key of this day and let them end on something rosy instead of the bitter-sour of everything the djinn had touched. Geralt rarely got what he wanted, and this was no exception.

He cleared his throat and started again. “Witchers can’t feel, Jaskier. Your songs are all feelings. When I hear you sing, I know there is something I am missing. Maybe I am the pie with no filling, not you.” 

Jaskier flicked his eyes to Geralt, then away. A few minutes passed. An owl called overhead, and Geralt could hear small creatures moving in the undergrowth. Jaskier sighed deeply and crawled into his bedroll, but not before carefully tucking his lute away in its case. 

Geralt sat awake long into the night, watching the merry flames burn down into embers.


	8. Chapter 8

Geralt trudged slowly through the inn behind Jaskier, tuning out the endless nattering about the town, the weather, the job they had just accepted. Jaskier knew full well how good Geralt’s hearing was and did not find distance to be a deterrent to their one-sided conversations as long as Geralt was within the same building. Geralt stopped at the counter to slug down a tankard of ale before stomping up the stairs towards their shared room.

Jaskier was a whirlwind of activity, rapidly rolling clothes and tucking them into packs, mixing Geralt’s and his own in a system known only to himself. Boots, armor, weapons, and packs were being lobbed towards the door. Geralt stood poleaxed in the center of the room as Jaskier ducked and wove around him, the steady stream of his speech completely belying the frenetic pace of his movements.

Geralt’s hands flexed and opened, his breaths deepened as if preparing for battle. He shook his head, overwhelmed and fighting to regain some semblance of control over himself, over his life. His arms shot out viper-fast and grabbed Jaskier’s shoulders. The bard nearly toppled over at the sudden arrest of his momentum but Geralt held him firm, then gave him a rough shake to get the bard’s attention.

“Jaskier, what are you doing?” Geralt cut off his response before the bard could draw breath (undoubtedly poised to say ‘packing, of course’) with another rough shake. “What are  _ we _ doing?”

“Setting aside the obvious,” Jaskier gestured broadly to the room, “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

“Witchers can’t have… companions. It’s not allowed.” He gritted his teeth. “You can’t just… follow me around for the rest of your life. You can’t. It’s just not right.”

Jaskier stared at Geralt, mouth slightly open. His eyes drifted and Geralt could tell thoughts were flickering through Jasker’s head at an alarming pace. Jaskier leaned back slightly as if the tension of the moment blossoming between them was physically pushing him away. He blinked, shook his head slightly, blinked twice more, and then let out a howling, guffawing laugh. Jaskier laughed so hard he shook, turning red and wiping tears from his eyes.

“Whose stupid fucking rule is that? ‘It’s not  _ right? _ ’ Ha! I’ve trotted along beside three Roaches by now, my dear witcher, and I haven’t been struck by a bolt of lightning yet.” Jaskier gave Geralt’s shoulder a squeeze and brushed by to survey the tidy pile of gear by the door. He grabbed the lightest bags and his lute, then tromped down the stairs still chuckling to himself, unaware or unbothered by the witcher gaping dumbfounded at his retreating back.


	9. Chapter 9

Geralt cleared his throat quietly, sidling up to Barnabas-Basil at the dining table where he was dusting an ostentatious candelabra. Geralt had been skirting the man for nearly a week, following his movements and noting the cadence of his days. He got the feeling the majordomo was well aware of his shadow and was intentionally spending a large proportion of his afternoon working alone at menial tasks, but Geralt was thankful for the opportunity to have a private conversation nonetheless.

Barnabas-Basil regarded Geralt, seemingly unsurprised to see him. “How may I assist you, sir?”

Geralt held out a meticulously prepared piece of thick parchment. “I need to, ah, send this. To Oxenfurt. Please.” He had few firsts left in his long life, but he had never written a letter with the expectation of receiving a response. Rather than a hastily scrawled note tacked to a tree by a dagger or trail signs left with broken twigs and stacked stones, this was a missive, correspondence, an invitation. He was entirely out of his depth. 

The majordomo made no indication of noticing Geralt’s unease. He nodded, said, “Follow me please, sir,” and proceeded to a small writing desk. He folded and tucked the letter elaborately then dipped a quill in rich black ink. “To whom do you address the letter?”

“Jask- ah, hmm,” Geralt paused, “Professor Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

Barnabas-Basil wrote the direction in beautiful, formal script that easily outshone Geralt’s old-fashioned and unpracticed hand. He melted red wax along the edge of the tucked flap, deftly pressing it with a seal pulled from the drawer. When the stamp was pulled away, Geralt saw the wax was embossed with his own coat of arms: the bridge over the three diamonds of Rivia. He had no idea why BB had such a stamp, but was pleased to send his inaugural letter off in style.

“I’ll be sure it is sent out with the courier first thing tomorrow, sir.”

“Thanks, BB. How long until it will be delivered?”

* * *

Geralt spent the next several weeks rambling around Toussaint, killing any monsters he could find and absolutely _not_ pondering the mystery of how long travel could take when you were the one standing still.

* * *

When he received a letter in return, his _first_ letter in return, he took his time admiring the fine grain of the parchment and tracing the elaborately curled calligraphy with his eyes. _Ser Geralt of Rivia, Corvo Bianco Estate, Sansretour Valley, Toussaint_. Jaskier clearly spared no expense and had gone to great lengths to adorn their correspondence with all the frivolous pomp bestowed upon royal epistolary. He rubbed his clean hands against his breeches for good measure and delicately lifted the letter. Pressed beneath the wax seal (depicting a lute surrounded by a floral wreath) were a sprig each of rosemary and thyme, still fragrant to his sensitive nose. Geralt drew out his thinnest knife and scraped the seal off, wrapping it in a bit of cloth for safekeeping. Geralt took a deep breath and used the tips of his fingers to unfold the letter.

* * *

Jaskier arrived a scarce week after his letter had, having chased it across the continent. After a joyful reunion, they spent the rest of the day wandering the estate together and catching up after nearly a year apart. As they walked, Geralt pointed out repairs and additions he had made to the Corvo Bianco estate with pride. The pair was greeted warmly by everyone they passed. He felt a small smile creep onto his face but didn’t try to hide it, even after he caught Jaskier slanting glances his way.

After dinner and a significant quantity of wine, Geralt and Jaskier leaned against the wide balcony railing, surveying the sprawling vineyard. Geralt sighed and looked away from the view, rubbing at a scar across his forearm.

“Witchers can’t retire. _Don’t_ retire.”

Jaskier turned to regard him, then bumped his hip and shoulder against Geralt's. “Rules like that are just lies we tell ourselves, darling.”

After a moment, Geralt cast his arm around Jaskier's shoulders and drew him close as the sun dipped behind the mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For centuries of correspondence, they didn't use envelopes. Instead, letters were elaborately folded and sealed with wax, a practice now called "letterlocking." If the contents of the letters were particularly secret, there were many techniques for making letters tamper-proof or self-destructing to foil anyone who'd like to sneak a peek. The Letterlocking Videos youtube account kept me busy for most of an evening. [Here](https://youtu.be/dzPE1MCgXxo) is a brief video showing a spiral lock used in Mary Queen of Scots' last letter in 1587.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Epilogue in Two Parts

Part 1: 

Geralt could hear Lambert coming, but was powerless to change the course of events.

“Now sit still. I want to have a fancy dinner with Lambert and Vesemir to welcome them and you are going to look like a proper gentleman, not some backwater smallholder.”

Lambert rounded the corner and was perplexed to see Geralt seated in front of Jaskier who was busily braiding Geralt’s hair into an elaborate plait. Geralt tried to pull away but Jaskier’s strong hands held firm. Unless he wanted to scalp himself, Geralt was trapped. Jaskier bent back to his task. 

“Don’t fuss, how could you possibly hope to get it straight if you can’t see it?”

Geralt met Lambert’s eyes in the mirror and shook his head in a nearly imperceptible gesture. He mouthed, “later,” and then settled deeper into his chair.

* * *

Jaskier liked to sleep in, especially after a late night drinking, so Geralt was able to speak to Lambert in private the next day. He dragged the younger witcher to one of the farthest outbuildings and thoroughly checked for potential eavesdroppers. Finally, he could delay no longer.

“Things have, um, gotten out of hand.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Geralt had hoped Lambert would say something snide in response so Geralt could deck him and run off, but clearly Lambert had outfoxed him.

“Jaskier and I… well, hm.” He licked his lips and continued, “I _may_ have told him some things. Things I’ve never told anyone else.” Both of Lambert’s eyebrows were up now and Geralt could feel his heart gearing up for a fight. “Things that are perhaps... not entirely true.”

“Geralt, you _scoundrel_ , what kind of trap did you set for that poor blushing maiden?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that! It was a joke, but he took it so _seriously_ and I didn’t know how to explain!” With that, the whole sordid affair spooled out of him, starting with that first poorly-landed jest, then the next, culminating in years of lies that _occasionally_ pushed Geralt into situations that might be construed as “unusual” if they were witnessed by another witcher.

Lambert laughed himself sick at Geralt’s self-begotten misfortune but nevertheless agreed to hold his tongue. “You have to tell Vesemir, though. You’re not getting off that easy.”

Despite his well-earned reputation as an indiscriminate asshole, perhaps even a contributing factor, the fact remained that Lambert was an excellent trickster and he could play the long game for a prank with stunning commitment. He fastidiously inspected breakfast pastries for several days, breaking them into bits and inspecting for hidden perils until Jaskier assured him the cook was quite familiar with the dietary constraints of witchers. Vesemir said nothing, a master of cultivating neutrality alongside the games boys played.

Once, before heading into town, Lambert stood in the front hall fidgeting with his clothing and sighing loudly until he called out, “Geralt, would you?”

“Lambert…” Geralt growled at him and stomped over, Jaskier trailing behind.

“Here, let me,” Jaskier elbowed Geralt away and came close to look Lambert over. “ _He’d_ send you out of the house whether you looked proper or not. I just don’t know how he managed without me. Well, we all know how he was doing before I came along.” He pulled the clasp of Lambert’s medallion to the nape of his neck, straightened his cuffs and collar, then used a handkerchief to brush soot off Lambert’s cheek.

“There! Now you can walk with your head held high.”

Lambert held Geralt’s eye as Jaskier returned the handkerchief to his own belt pouch. “Thank you, Jaskier. I _truly_ appreciate your assistance.” With that, Lambert strolled out the door, a spring in his step.

Part 2: 

Their days settled into an easy rhythm at Corvo Bianco. Geralt worked in the vineyard pulling up old vines, building trellises, and learning to tend to his crop. Jaskier puttered around in the house clearing storage rooms and refreshing the living spaces. Lambert put his love of distilling and alchemy to work experimenting with wine and grappa. Vesemir spent his time revitalizing the vast gardens that had fallen into disrepair.

The season was edging towards winter, though this far south the change was gradual and mild. It was still plenty warm enough to sweat with exertion. Geralt had removed his shirt and tucked it into his waistband while he worked, relishing the breeze on his heated skin. Late in the afternoon he heard [beautiful singing far in the distance](https://youtu.be/XOl0Xdb5Knk?t=58). It echoed around the valley and added pleasant ambiance to the meditative task of mulching around grape vines.

The song steadily grew louder. The singer was talented and emotive, and sounded vaguely familiar. Geralt paused in his work and then startled as he recognized the voice. He dropped his pitchfork and sprinted in a full-out run towards the front of the property, leaping over fences, dodging around workers, heedless of the scratches and dirt he collected as he rushed pell-mell across the estate towards the cobbled courtyard in front of the house.

He vaulted over a low stone wall and launched himself bodily at the singer. The two men rolled over and over across the stone, grappling until Geralt had the larger man pressed face-down with Geralt’s arm around his neck as a warning. For a moment, they laid there panting in the scattered wreckage of the contents of the man’s rucksack. When he finally caught his breath he realized Jaskier was squawking with alarm, and likely had been for some time. “I have never been so _embarrassed_ in my life! Geralt, what are you _doing_? I can’t imagine someone with such a lovely voice is a monster, have you no _manners_? I’m sorry, sir, I can’t apologize enough for this-”

The man underneath Geralt huffed out a laugh and slowly turned to lay his other cheek on the stone, facing the bard. Geralt got the hint and scrambled to his feet, pulling the other man along with him. The man dusted himself off, and gave a friendly nod to Jaskier. Jaskier rushed from the doorway to him and clasped his hand in welcome, finally taking in the man’s callouses, his height, the scars on his face, his smile, and finally, two yellow cat eyes.

Jaskier spluttered and turned to stare at Geralt, aghast. Geralt was doing his best impression of an extremely uncomfortable brick wall.

“It’s not the warm welcome I had hoped for,” he flicked an amused glance to Geralt then back to the bard. “I hope you’ll ignore my brother’s appalling manners. I promise I’m much better company, if you’ll still have me.” After no response from Jaskier, the man started to draw away, “I’m Eskel. It seems Geralt is not in the mood to make polite introductions.”

Jaskier dragged his eyes back to him. “Eskel! _Eskel_! I had no idea, it’s just… you were- and he said- Please excuse me, Eskel.” He seemed to have gathered himself, squeezing Eskel’s hand warmly before releasing it and then rounding on Geralt with the building intensity of a thundercloud. Geralt had not suddenly developed the ability to teleport and looked instead for escape routes. Lambert was an appalling shade of red and had clearly bitten deep into his own fist to hold in his laughter. Vesemir was nowhere to be seen and BB was standing against the opened front door, his face perfectly impassive. Geralt squared his shoulders. He could do this. He could handle the wrath of a hundred different monsters, and this bard was no monster.

“What is going _on_ here, Geralt? Singing! Beautifully, I might add!” He turned to Eskel and gave him a winning smile that disappeared like a snuffed candle when his eyes returned to Geralt. “He- was- _singing_!” Jaskier punctuated each word with a firm push to Geralt’s shoulders.

“Ow! Hey, ow, stop!” Normally Jaskier wasn’t strong enough to cause pain to a witcher but as the heat of the moment passed, Geralt noted the tenderness of his own skin.

“Is that-” Jaskier pressed his hand firmly on Geralt’s shoulder and then pulled away, they both watched as his pink skin blanched white and then flushed again. “You have a _sunburn_?!” 

“I didn’t have time to put my shirt back on to heal, I was trying to get to Eskel before you heard-” Geralt shut his mouth with an audible click. 

“Before I heard _what_ , praytell? His lovely singing voice? The _emotion_ in his voice? Geralt you- I-” He spun, surveying the scene with manic intensity. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in a bizarre wave. Geralt crushed the hysterical laughter building in his belly.

Jaskier flailed an arm out towards a large black stallion and a goat who was decorated with flowers and ribbons. The animals regarded him with the steadiness developed through long familiarity with witchers and the strange scenes that often surrounded them. “That _goat_ is _not_ a witcher’s steed! That goat is a _companion,_ nay, a _friend_!” He whirled, and fell to his knees amid Eskel’s scattered belongings. With the dramatic flair only a professional could muster, he leaned back and gestured with both arms outstretched at a scattered bag of dried fruit and nuts. “Are those…” a pause to take in a breath, swallow, and then in a quiet voice that could carry effortlessly across an amphitheatre, “Are those _raisins_?”

Lambert and Eskel dissolved into peals of laughter, holding onto each other for support and wiping tears from their eyes. Clearly Lambert had let Eskel in on the secret. Geralt spotted Vesemir giving BB a sly smile and slipping coins into the majordomo’s hand.

Geralt shrugged, helpless and giddy as the weight of decades of ridiculous lies fell away. “You’re not the only one who can embellish a tale, I suppose.” He had no breath to explain further as Jaskier had launched himself at Geralt and tackled him back to the ground, knocking the wind from him.

“What is _wrong_ with you, you absolute bloody lunatic?” Jaskier was perched on Geralt’s belly, his cheeks bright with color and eyes sparkling with mirth. “You are a menace- all these years, I can’t believe it! Have you ever been genuine with me?” He shook his head and put on a face of mock sternness that was entirely undermined by his body shaking with laughter. “Tell me something true right now, you trickster, you fabulist, you- you _liar_!”

Geralt beamed up at Jaskier, feeling lighter than he could ever remember. He put his hands on either side of Jaskier’s face and pulled him close. They stared into each other’s eyes and the moment stretched. Geralt whispered the truest words of his heart, and then drew Jaskier in for a kiss.

“I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Eskel sings is "Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes" which is the poem "To Celia" by Ben Jonson (1616) set to music. It is one of my absolute favorite songs on earth to sing. I chose [this version](https://youtu.be/XOl0Xdb5Knk?t=58) for Eskel because in the games the witchers (mysteriously) have American accents and despite his beautiful voice Eskel wouldn't have a cultivated or "choral" singing voice since he wouldn't have had lessons.

**Author's Note:**

> *boots this fic out of the nest* Fly free, baby bird!
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm honored to contribute to the universe of fandom as a creator after enjoying fan works for decades.


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